by A. P. Wayne
That was what was bothering him.
She’d told him he didn’t do anything.
She was probably right.
Maybe he was just avoiding the inevitable. About everything.
But he was taking some small steps.
Each day he’d been going for walks, a little farther each time. Ideally he was going to try walking out of Lawrence. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be able to. He supposed he could just have Jordan drive him out, but he was afraid of what it might do to him, to leave that fast if the town really wanted to keep hold of him. He might be dead before Jordan even realized what was happening to him. He could do it himself but he’d sold his car. If he asked to borrow Jordan’s, she’d ask to come with him.
His original plan was the best. That way he’d be alone. More and more, and maybe it was just the constant loneliness, he enjoyed doing things alone.
Maybe he was a freak.
Maybe he needed to find someone like him.
He wondered if Jordan would let him make her like him.
She would if she loved him, he thought.
Seven
Hunter sat in the reception area, reeling. The only reason he was still at the station was because Earl, who was actually a deputy, told him that if he left he would cite him for public intoxication. That was after telling him both of his parents died in the housefire two weeks ago. If Hunter had been in Earl’s place, he would have seen it as preventative maintenance.
Of course, Hunter assumed it was probably more his belligerence than drunkenness as the reason he was sitting here. He had just wanted some very basic questions answered.
How long ago had this happened?
Why wasn’t he notified?
Were they buried yet?
Why wasn’t he notified?
Why did Earl have such a fat red neck?
Why wasn’t he fucking notified?
Why was everyone in this town such an inbred moron?
After handcuffing Hunter to the chair, Earl had explained things to him.
“It’s not up to us to notify all the family members. In the case of an emergency, we contact the closest family member. In this case, that was your Aunt Beulah.”
“Fucking whore,” Hunter growled.
“I found her quite pleasant. She said you hadn’t been back in town for over a decade. Said you had a wife and a son and everything and never even brought them to see your ma and pa.”
“They could have come to me just as easily. I wasn’t even a day away.”
“Well, with most everything in the house gone and you doing your best to avoid creditors, no one knew where to find you. She even bought a copy of that book you wrote.”
“Vampires Drink Blood?” Great, he thought, and mentally deducted one copy from his sales figures. If it wasn’t bought to read, it didn’t count.
“That’s the one. The one about Lawrence.”
“The town’s called Lawrence. It’s just a trashy vampire novel. It doesn’t have anything to do with this shitburg.”
“Hm. Some people might not feel that way.”
Earl continued talking but Hunter’s mind had begun wandering.
“She thought she got lucky when she found your publisher’s address in the front of the book.”
Some might not feel that way. Was that a threat?
“She sent the editor a letter. Last I heard, she hasn’t heard back.”
Was it possible his parents had died because of some schlock book he’d written?
“That’s just bad customer service if you ask me. Publisher’s in Dayton. What’s it take her letter to get there? One day. Two, tops. Seems like he would have gotten in touch with her or, maybe even, you.”
“He’s on safari in fucking Africa!”
Earl kept talking.
Hunter pulled himself into the closest thing he could come to the fetal position while handcuffed to a not extremely comfortable chair and waited hopefully for the apocalypse.
Eight
“I’m in front of your house.” Jordan hit END as soon as she said this.
A few seconds later, Melanie came bounding out of the house. She opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. “Hi, sister.”
“Hey.”
“Where to?”
“I need to go home and get out of these clothes. Maybe grab a shower.”
“Then we don’t really need to go anywhere. I can just tell my parents I’m sleeping over.”
“Sure.” Jordan smiled. “I’m sure it’ll be okay with my folks. It’s probably a plus that you don’t have a dick.”
“Nope. That I do not.”
Jordan reached across the seat and poked Melanie in the crotch. “You have a magic button.”
Melanie made a sound that was half-squeal/half-moan and said, “I have more than one.”
“Me too.” Jordan backed out of the driveway. They were only a couple of minutes from her house.
Melanie leaned across the seat and took Jordan’s earlobe into her mouth. “Is this one?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Melanie ran her tongue down the side of Jordan’s neck. “What about this?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I think you might have a few more.”
“Probably.”
“Did you talk to Walker?”
“I will.”
“Did you fuck him?”
“No. Relax. Jealousy isn’t becoming. And you knew I was doing that with him before we started doing anything.”
“Not jealousy. Curiosity.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Sure. Who wouldn’t be?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s a Fang isn’t he?”
“Jesus. Does everyone know that?”
Melanie paused for a second. “Um, yeah, I think so.”
“How?”
“It’s a small town, Cass.”
“Still ... I thought he and I were the only ones who knew. Actually, I’m not even sure he knows. Or he’s in denial or something.”
“He has to know.”
“Wait, now I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about us. Walker being a Fang. Everything. He has to know.”
“He will. Just let me do it my way. Also, if you really are curious about ... you know, I wouldn’t mind sharing.”
Melanie laughed but it seemed loaded. Like maybe she really would think about it.
Jordan turned onto Maple and sped to her house, pulling past her dad’s Mercedes and parking next to her mom’s Volvo.
Before going inside, Jordan said, “So, what do you think? I know you were thinking about it.”
“Hm. Let me keep thinking about it.”
“Okay.”
“I guess I’m not really that surprised that you wouldn’t mind sharing him, but what about me?”
“The biology’s all different. He has an outie and you have an innie.”
“So?”
“Look. I love you both but you make me feel things he couldn’t in a million years. There. Does that make you feel better?”
“As long as it’s not just something you’re saying.”
“It’s not. Promise. You’ll get to see how you make me feel veddy veddy soon.”
Jordan unlocked the door and they went inside, just a couple of giggling high school girls.
Nine
Ilya had found her current body in a drab apartment outside of Omaha, Nebraska. She had walked this earth longer than anyone and had kept her original body longer than any of her kind but those kids had seen to its destruction. The shame had driven her farther from Lawrence than she’d ever been. She had inhabited several bodies during that time period and she had learned a few things.
Each body was different. Capable only of what the previous inhabitant was capable of. This, she thought, must be what it was like for most of her kind. If it wasn’t craving for that sensation only living flesh could provide, she would have preferred to remai
n in spirit form. Coming into a new body was like learning to drive a different car. They all had their quirks. She had learned to avoid the ones who were crippled or too fat.
Also, she wasn’t able to completely take over the brain. She still shared many of their wants and desires. Sometimes even their responsibilities. She had learned to avoid people with families or people who were married to their jobs.
That left people like Patrick Fishman.
He wasn’t exactly thin but he wasn’t too fat. He was ... nondescript. Almost the very definition of. He worked nine to five at a data entry job. She had only had to spend a few days shadowing him. He worked in a lonely cubicle where he never spoke more than to exchange the usual pleasantries with people. He sat there until five, taking an hour off to eat a peanut butter or turkey sandwich in the break room while watching the noon news. While working, he didn’t listen to the radio or audio books or anything. She thought he must be completely empty on the inside. When she finally entered him, she realized she wasn’t that far from the truth.
She had endured one day of him at work before finally taking control.
At work, he thought about virtually nothing. Sometimes while he entered the account numbers and payments from people’s bills, he would think, “They owe a lot of money.” But mostly it was just people making the minimum payments on minimal accounts. There was a lingering feeling of resentment. Sometimes there were some pleasant memories. Mostly from childhood. Mostly involving what Ilya thought was probably his family. There was no hint of female involvement. She was pretty sure Patrick had never had sex. She would see if she could change that. Of course, it wouldn’t be a memory he could keep. He’d have to die if Ilya ever wanted to leave.
He left work to go back to his drab apartment in a drab part of town, usually stopping at a drive-thru restaurant to get some food to eat in front of the television. In her day of habitation and few days of shadowing she didn’t even observe him masturbate.
His apartment was decorated with bland furniture and prints, almost like it was decorated through some belief that these objects needed to be there.
Once she entered, he was still there, but it was mostly a residual kind of there. Memories. Something like a conscience. Feelings. But those things began dying away the second she took up his body and, within a couple of weeks, would be gone completely. She almost wished this wasn’t the case.
She was going to show him some interesting things. Probably more experiences—real, visceral experiences—than he’d had his entire life.
Take, for instance, the hooker on the bed.
They were in the middle of Illinois, land of truck stops, and Ilya had felt the urge crawl over her. She needed to eat. She wanted blood. Since she was in the body of a human and he would probably remain human the entire time she was with him, she could have remained alive eating the same crap he’d been shoveling in probably his entire life. But she wanted blood. And she felt there was more to it than simple craving. It was who she was, a drinker of blood, and she thought it kept her senses sharp.
The hooker had introduced herself as Jade. She was probably in her twenties but hadn’t aged well and looked closer to forty. She was definitely on something and probably needed money to buy more so when Ilya asked her what she could get for fifty dollars, Jade had told her she could get pretty much anything she wanted.
Ilya’s view of this was very liberal.
It had been several months since she’d inhabited the body of a man and she’d forgotten how much fun that could be.
The whore was thin to begin with and whatever drug she was on had further wasted her but, still, the feeling of total dominance Ilya was able to assert with Patrick’s body was empowering.
Ilya had thoroughly abused every orifice on Jade’s body but apparently hadn’t sent up any red flags yet.
Jade was resting on the bed, not a cover or shred of clothing on her bony, scabby body.
Ilya was in the small, hot bathroom, enjoying the pungent and most likely diseased reek of sex rising from her body. Despite coming on the hooker’s face, her penis was still erect.
Of course it was.
Ilya hadn’t been completely satisfied yet.
She still had the itch that she couldn’t reach with Patrick’s body alone. Before leaving Patrick’s lair of boredom, she had packed a duffel bag with some clothes, a surprising amount of cash he’d kept in a book called The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, and some kitchen items. She grabbed a large butcher knife and a corkscrew, opened the bathroom door, and began walking toward the bed.
Jade stared up at the ceiling, her arms over her chest.
Ilya straddled her with Patrick’s bulky body and said, “Don’t be scared.”
If Jade hadn’t screamed, Ilya wouldn’t have cut her throat first thing.
It was probably better for Jade that she did.
Ten
Hunter was starting to feel like the sole participant in his staring contest with Earl when Chief Bowsman arrived just after dawn.
“Hey Chief, where are the donuts!”
“Who’s this?”
“That’s Hunter Jenkins. You know, the son of the couple whose house ...”
“And,” Hunter shouted, “author of Vampires Drink Blood! The book that’s going to bring down Lawrence!”
Bowsman fiddled with some keys attached to a retractable belt device. He unlocked the handcuffs and said, “People would have to read it in order for that to happen.”
Hunter rubbed his wrist and stood up. Bowsman was a pretty large man so Hunter didn’t shout as loudly when he said, “I need some questions answered.”
Bowsman smiled. Hunter thought it looked like he was enjoying this. “I think you need to talk to the insurance company now. Our business with the affair is done. I don’t want to see you any more.”
Hunter was too tired to think of anything else to say so he said, “I don’t want to see you either.” He was almost out of the station before he remembered Earl had confiscated his phone. Not that there was anyone he wanted to call anyway but, provided the station had a WiFi connection, he could have spent the wee hours of the morning watching YouTube instead of Earl doing that droopy head, jello-neck kind of thing.
Hunter raised his arms up to the ceiling and, completely against his better judgment, bellowed, “CAN I PLEASE HAVE MY PHONE BACK!”
Bowsman jammed it roughly into Hunter’s chest and nudged him toward the front doors.
He got in his car and drove it down the block just far enough to be out of sight from the station. His phone was dead so he had to plug it in. He guessed he could call his aunt or the insurance company but he didn’t see either one of those conversations going well.
He was so tired.
He called Chef Uncle’s and was surprised when someone answered the phone.
“What time do you start serving liquor?”
“Six AM.”
“Fuck. Yes.”
“Excuse me?”
“I just meant to say, ‘God bless your soul.’”
Hunter drove the few blocks to Chef Uncle’s. He walked in and ordered a Jack and Coke and “food.” When the waitress asked him what kind of food he wanted he said he didn’t care. He walked to the jukebox and furiously fed change into it like he was eager to divest himself of every last cent he had. He selected Blue Oyster Cult because it wasn’t country and it was close to the beginning of the alphabet. He sat in a booth in the corner, guessing that “Don’t Fear the Reaper” was going to be blaring for at least the next hour. He didn’t really find it hilarious until other people came in and looked bemusedly around them. He wondered how many times it would play before they complained.
While he observed them, he thought about what he was going to do.
Going back to Illinois was not an option. There was a restraining order involved. Maybe he could get a job at Chef Uncle’s but he still wouldn’t have a place to stay. He probably had enough left on his credit card to stay at a cheap hot
el for maybe a week.
Rachel.
The name came storming to him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of her before. He’d used her name as the female protaganist in Vampires. She was the closest thing he’d had to a high school sweetheart, which meant they spent a few months fucking before she realized what a loser he was and he realized how boring she was. But, over the years, he’d romanticized the relationship somewhat. He’d remembered her ass being amazingly firm in his hands. Whatever. It had been over seventeen years. She was probably gross and flabby by now. But it was someone to talk to. He wasn’t specifically thinking about using her for a place to stay.
He thought about looking her up online but figured she’d probably been married at least once by now and, since he still remembered her parents’ phone number, he called them not minding that it was just after seven in the morning. Whatever. They were ancient by now. Probably got up with the sun.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” Hunter said, using a strange, husky voice.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah. This is Randy Michaels from the school. I’m trying to reach Rachel for some importance.” He thought maybe if he just made the whole statement as vague and confusing as possible, he would overwhelm the woman and get the information.
“Sir, she hasn’t lived here for years.”
“I know. I had her new number on the computer but a crash happened and I lost it and now I don’t have it. I’m from the school again.”
“Well hold on.”
Thirty seconds later he was calling Rachel.
She didn’t seem to be as awake when she said, “Hello.”
“Hey, Rache, it’s Hunter!” He tried to sound really bright and cheerful, like a morning radio show host.
“Who?”
“Hunter Jenkins! From high school!”
“Yes?”
“How ya doin?”
“Well, um, married. With kids. Three of them.”
“That’s a really swell number.”
